


Poems from the Ginnungagap

by Goron_King_Darunia



Category: Tales of Symphonia: Dawn of the New World
Genre: Drabbles, M/M, Poetry, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 02:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3834163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goron_King_Darunia/pseuds/Goron_King_Darunia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written from a set of 5 prompts from nosebleedclub on Tumblr. 5 poems about Richter Abend and Aster, some written from Richter's point of view, others written by no one in particular (you could imagine it's Emil, Aqua, or maybe even Tenebrae or Ratatosk). (SPOILER) Richter does commit suicide in the last one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poems from the Ginnungagap

**Author's Note:**

> Yep, so, like I said, these were written from a bunch of prompts on Tumblr. I'll leave a link in the actual text. There are more author's notes there, but I don't feel like transcribing all of them, so take a look if you want!. Basically, I saw the prompts and was just randomly inspired to do a bunch of sad poems about Richter and Aster. I may recycle some of these into other works, but for now, these are just stand alone pieces. Comments and critiques are always welcome! (Now, back to my finals/essays... yuck...)

[](http://goron-king-darunia.tumblr.com/post/116546976829/discussion-4-7-15)

[Prompts:](http://goron-king-darunia.tumblr.com/post/116546976829/discussion-4-7-15)

[

1\. Something which cannot die  
2\. What do you work hard at  
3\. What are you becoming   
4\. Moonlit  
5\. Death Penalty

 

](http://goron-king-darunia.tumblr.com/post/116546976829/discussion-4-7-15)

1\. “Energy can neither be created nor destroyed, it only changes shape.”   
As a scientist, he knows all about  
the laws of thermodynamics and the conservation of mass.  
It is a truth he seeks solace in, because as long as that’s true  
then Aster has never really left him.  
He’s always been there, and he will always be there.  
But a dry scientific statement can only be so comforting.  
“We are all just bits of stardust, floating through the universe.”  
Existential as it is, he smiles through his tears when he repeats it.  
Because if both these things are true,   
then someday when the planet dies  
and the universe collapses back in on itself,  
what’s left of him will mix with what’s left of his beloved.  
They can be reborn together,   
in the dust that might form the fringe of a galaxy  
or the heart of a star that burns with twice the intensity as their sun,  
because nothing, not even death, will extinguish the love he has  
for the boy who gave him the magic of courage.

2\. When you ask me about my ambition  
I’ll tell you “revenge”.  
I’ll give you a grand story about a noble goal,  
saving the world from genocide,  
fulfilling a Faustian contract to revive an innocent life.  
But the truth is  
my greatest ambition  
is just trying to hold on  
for one more day  
in a world where  _he_ no longer exists…

3\. Water and fire don’t make steam.  
They make blood.  
  
He walks with purpose.  
Every step is a deliberate decision.  
Each breath is a conscious action.  
Everything is calculated with precision.  
  
Because if it’s not…  
the glass heart inside him will shatter,  
and the rage and despair he’s kept locked inside will escape.  
He is the box that all bad things come from,  
and Pandora is the look in that blond boy’s green eyes.  
  
He is tooth and he is nail.  
He is the sound a tree makes when it falls and no one hears,  
The quiet explosion that screams:  
“God help me! God help us all!”  
  
He walks in stilettos with daggers on the insole,   
and he speaks black smoke.  
He has a demon tongue and frozen eyes.  
He cries hydrochloric acid.  
  
Scary is a cornered wolf, or a mother bear with cubs to protect.  
Terrifying is a man that laughs when he bleeds out.  
But true horror is a kind man  
who has absolutely nothing left to lose.  
  
When a man who loves the rain  
is set ablaze with hatred,  
and burns with an unquenchable thirst for justice,  
there is no steam, nor ash, nor coal.  
There is only blood.  
  


4\. I can never decide if the stillness of night is comforting  
or just painful.  
The moons’ light casts the world in shades of blue and grey  
that remind me of the labs  
and his eyes when they weren’t busy being green.  
And when the stars don’t make me sob his name  
they remind me of how small I really am.  
Impotent.  
The universe is infinite and changing,  
and I am just a helpless, mortal creature  
floating on a tiny planet full of tiny, helpless mortal creatures just like me.  
And that planet is just a tiny sphere in the whorl we call our galaxy,  
and that galaxy is one of billions, trillions, heck,   
it’s probably one of an infinite number,  
and our universe could just be one of many.  
And I am me, just a man, alone.  
I didn’t used to mind  
back when loneliness was all I knew,  
before love was something I thought I could achieve.  
  
That’s the danger of falling in love, I suppose.  
Or maybe just the danger of letting yourself get in that deep.  
I worried about it when I found myself tangled up  
in tendrils of affection that made me pine for more.  
I worried about losing that high,   
the way an addict frets over their dwindling stash.  
I worried about stagnation, about growing   
used to the attention and taking it for granted.  
I worried that someday, when he inevitably left me,   
that the grief would hurt too much.  
But I thought it would be a long way off,  
I thought the joy I felt   
as I sank into the abyss  
would be enough to outweigh   
the foreseeable pain.  
I was wrong.  
I was right.  
I was both.  
  
I should have just stayed miserable.  
You can’t miss what you never had.  
But I thought I was prepared.  
I thought it would be worth it.  
I forgot for a split second that the world hates me.  
And it  _loves_  to hate me.  
  
It should have been me instead,  
because all my life has proven so far  
is that death follows me around.  
My only influence seems to be  
killing everyone but the person I want dead.  
  
But, night is quiet.  
And while it does give me the time to dwell on all these painful things,  
it gives me peace and shelter and cover.  
Night gives me a freedom that holds me,   
like an anchor,  
on the precipice between hope and despair.  
In the silence of darkness, I can hear his voice.  
He can whisper to me,   
like old times,  
about the wonders of the world.  
The wonders themselves no longer interest me  
but hearing his excited tone  
in that cassette-player in my mind  
reminds me of the joy and burning fervor I once had  
when I thought of seeing such wonders with him.  
I can rest in the quiet,   
away from the hustle and bustle of towns  
where every face and voice and smell and touch pains me  
because they aren’t  _his_.  
The evening’s tenebrous arms  
can rock me to sleep as my mother’s once did  
and I can dream, on rare occasion, of the happy times.  
And sometimes the dreams are so real that it’s almost a shame  
to wake up.  
When darkness falls, I can move through the world unnoticed.  
No one to hurt, no one to hurt me…  
I can cry without judgmental eyes or false-pity turned my way.  
I can level forests in fits of rage without disruption,  
without disturbing others.  
I can even steal glances into inn windows,  
and sometimes  
I’ll catch a glimpse of that boy,  
who’s so much like Aster,  
but he’s not my Aster,  
he’s not meant for me.  
  
Perhaps the most comforting thing about the night  
is that I can feel the thrum of life in my veins  
uninterrupted by the sloppiness of the living, waking world.  
And I can hold a blade to my throat or wrists,  
no screams, no interventions,  
and I can wonder what it would feel like  
to sever the soul from my body,  
to carve out the anguish,  
to empty the red from my heart.  
I could end it, and the night would swallow me whole.  
No one would know.  
  
Sometimes I wonder if someone would miss me  
the way that I miss him…

5\. “When life gives you lemons  
squeeze them into your eyes,  
because crying is easier than trying to make  
lemonade. Safer too. Because you won’t miss  
the sting of lemon juice  
when life stops giving you lemons,  
but you’ll damn well miss the lemonade.”  
  
He’s tired. He’s tired of feeling.  
The ache in his chest won’t subside,  
and he’s desperate enough that he thinks  
if he scratched himself hard enough, for long enough,  
that he could eventually burrow his way to his heart.  
Then he could rip it out and eat it,  
because he’d rather have a stomach ache  
than this bullet hole.  
  
It makes him leak.  
Tears, apologies, blood.  
Nothing stops the flow.  
  
His world has been empty for some time now.  
But this hollow chamber in the earth reflects that  
with a clarity he’d rather be without.  
If he’s condemned to die here  
then he will.  
But he wants to die with the memory  
of that precious boy burned in his mind  
so that it will always be there.  
  
He lies, prostrate, at the spot where Aster had died,  
trying in vain to find his scent  
or a spot of blood,  
something,  
 _anything,_  
to remember him by.  
  
He’s going to die here.  
It’s for the best really.  
The world will be saved.  
Everyone will be happy.  
But he doesn’t care about that.  
  
He rolls onto his side and embraces the air.  
His arms try to rehearse Aster’s shape.  
But they can’t, they don’t remember, and neither does he.  
  
He pulls off his gloves and runs his hands through his hair.  
He closes his eyes and tickles his nose with a strand.  
He tries to remember waking up beside the other.  
But he can’t.  
  
He whispers his own name, trying to recall  
the way it sounded on the other’s tongue.  
“Richter, Richter, Ric…hter…”  
But he can’t.  
  
He screams in frustration,   
screams until his throat is dry and aching.  
He can’t remember…  
  
He pounds the floor until his knuckles bleed,  
he weeps until a puddle forms beneath him.  
He trembles. Everything hurts.  _Everything._  
  
He collapses, and cries until nothing else will come.  
The last tear rolls across his lips. He licks it.  
It’s salty…  
  
And…  
he  _remembers._  
Aster, who’s eyes shone green like the shallow sea.  
Aster, who smelled of dust and mildew and bread.  
Aster, who nipped his ears playfully,  
whose skin felt like the petals of roses,  
whose laugh sounded like the ringing of bells.  
 _Aster_ , his tears were also salty.  
  
He wants to die here, in the spot where Aster died,  
in the same position, on the same day.  
  
Aqua brings him what she can, and he waits.  
He waits… until it’s finally time…  
  
He swallows pill after pill,   
washing them down with one of Aster’s favorite drinks.  
With each pill, he recites something he misses about the other.  
His smile, his touch, his laugh, his jokes, his warmth, his courage,  
everything, just everything.  
  
There’s a memory for every pill,   
and he takes them ‘til there’re none left.  
No pills, but still there are memories.  
He shuffles through them until he gets sleepy  
and his mind starts repeating them in a fog.  
  
He smiles, knowingly, and looks at his last remaining possession.  
The bracelet, made from Aster’s amulet.  
He removes it, rubbing the cool metal against his face.  
“Just a little longer… I’m coming.”  
  
He puts the bracelet in his mouth   
and gulps it down with the last of the drink.  
No one will be able to take it from him.  
Not ever.  
  
He gets into position, tears streaming down his face.  
But he smiles, laughs even, as the drugs take firm hold.  
“He’s probably going to be…  _so_  angry with me…”  
But he doesn’t mind, because, as he slowly slips away,  
he remembers how Aster would puff out his cheeks  
and tweak his nose and yank his ears when he got mad.  
And it’s something he looks forward to…


End file.
